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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590428">Wind, Sand and Stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heading100Ways/pseuds/Heading100Ways'>Heading100Ways</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Addiction, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Romance, Sequel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:27:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,925</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590428</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heading100Ways/pseuds/Heading100Ways</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“What if you had a heart that couldn’t be trusted”?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Theodore Decker &amp; Boris Pavlikovsky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>“What if you had a heart that couldn’t be trusted”?</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ll admit that I don’t know why I’ve continued to write beyond what I once perceived as the ‘end’, why my hand lingers over the page- stylo above the machine-cut and pressed clean-white paper, uneasy writing about Boris &amp; me or anytime I try to think of casually inscribing Pippa’s name, as I had once neatly done, in words, during conversations with Hobie.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>But then again, who would read this?</strong>
</p><p>It certainly didn’t serve me any good attempting to blasé my way through the passages that hurt, revealed my soul- a soul, I had only recently allowed the world to see again.</p><p>Just two days ago, in the shop, before closing up, a girl wanted to sell a selection of her recently bereaved grandmother’s collection, the pieces were rubbed and polished with candescence highlighting the quirky, well-to-do nature of her dead relative : something that was almost non-equivalent in the plainly-dressed, played-down wealth,wanting to be invisible, client. She told me that she wanted rid of the pieces so would take any price- I took her word for it... Welty’s sharp business tooth, a remainder of all the charm and dirt of antiquity, although not so much dirt for me these days.</p><p>Undeniable beauty, so much so I was, (unsurprisingly- ha!), persuaded by my own instincts, to her double the price of what they were actually worth, in honour of her grandmother’s tasteful eye and so that I could justify keeping back one of the pieces for myself, one that I never intended to sell... an antique rosewood music box. Victorian era, 1840s, worth only a hundred dollars or so, handcrafted by an anonymous handyman, I should have refused it - being the least profitable item of her collection.</p><p>But the artisanal charm intoxicated me again; ebony black varnish, with chips &amp; scars in all the right places, worn, squeaky  cast-iron hinges made 10 years before the steel age took off, spindly legs- one, clearly, on its last leg(s), but the gold- leaf rose painted on the lid reminded me so much of my little bird- the brushstrokes that up close were exactly depicted for what they were... brushstrokes by a painter’s dedicated, purposeful hand. But from afar, from the corner of my eye the painting took a life of its own, the illusion of a rose blossoming in the overwhelming, sticky heat of India. </p><p> </p><p>When of beauty, my mind went often to Pippa, out of old habit. These two years, I’ve spent time with the doctor, Toddy had recommended, trying to remedy old habits. But I have no intention of feeling guilty, for neglecting myself or my health. If I feel like a hit, I’ll do it... With the doctor, a false toothy smile straight from the whitening adverts that populates tv, he works on reducing my intake, something I could have done myself if ever fully-willing. <br/><br/></p><p>Part of his doctor’s prescription was a therapist, which I refused, having had my fair share of the American mantra ‘you are enough’, ‘ you deserve this’ etc. I find myself agreeing , though, with one point, expressed by only one of the numerous therapists I have seen and analysed:that there was no point in recovery where I could say “ I’ve recovered”! From grief or addiction. It made no difference, death was the only way out  (my interpretation, certainly not made  by any of the nervy therapists I had ever met), from a restless mind- some days it would cloud your head like the dark and heavy sky over New York City- promising rain, other days it was more bearable - but it was still there, a deathly humming noise.</p><p>’live by the sword, die by the sword’, I couldn’t choose what i wanted, couldn’t escape it somehow.</p><p>So it was only to be expected, quite foreseeable actually, that I have <strike>recently </strike>always been thinking about Boris.</p><p>About what I didn’t say on that night in Las Vegas...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. & the moon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>U awake? </strong>
</p><p>My phone ,a panel of white, illuminating the ceiling above, on the table beside my bed, filling the lonely ,pale ,summer, midnight blue. <br/>I scrambled on my side, propped on one elbow, running my eyes across the screen eagerly- <strong>Boris; a stream of incoherent text messages one after the other.</strong></p><p>
  <strong>R u home rn?</strong>
</p><p>The streetlights shone through the dainty lace curtains, adorning the room with intricate shadow patterns.</p><p>I went to the window, thinking of what to say, head foggy from lack of sleep &amp; the familiar cravings, when a figure caught my attention across the opposite street. <br/><br/></p><p>I pulled back the curtains to be sure and there he was... My forehead pressed against the cool glass to look closer, he hadn’t seen me. <br/><br/></p><p>The street lamp coloured his pale skin an artificial imitation of the gold sun &amp; shadowed his downcast comical brown eyes, his torso fitted and defined in a new-cut leather jacket, black &amp; smooth. <br/><br/></p><p>The moon, above the city streets, was startlingly bright. And for some reason, I thought about how Boris had once reassured me that the moon was the same wherever you went- that, like my mother had said, even if you and I were apart, we could look up and gaze upon the same moon. The one constant; reflecting off the pool in Las Vegas, strange &amp; frightful the night we recovered the painting and then lost it again.</p><p>He wore leather in summer- only Boris, I smirked to myself.</p><p>But the  thought suddenly emerged- what the hell was I doing here?<br/>The same thought as I grabbed my keys from the desk and dashed out of there as fast as I could, attempting to quieten Popchyk with some beef jerky, as he followed me around, patterning on his paws and whining for attention.</p><hr/><p>”Boris”?<br/>He spun on his heel, breeze lifting the hair from his eyes, veneer flashed smile. Before I know it, I’m pulled into a familiar embrace. “Potter”, his voice muffles on the collar of my pressed shirt, “has been too long”.</p><p>He takes a good look at me, hand on my arm and I cannot help but look away. Seemingly unaware of this, already leading me someplace , babbling about people I’ve never heard of, stories with no logical sequence of events, before turning his questions inwards to the ‘deeper stuff’ the stuff only Dostoevsky, Camus and the very few were able to express, Renaissance, death, a good Russian ,love, how many girls he claims to be incredible, mind-blowing- everything making me feel quite lost beside him, following him not unlike the way Popchyk does with me.</p><p>”Boris”, I begin to protest, body ready to face the other way, even though being with him is 100 times better than whatever sleep I wasn’t having up there .</p><p>”What”, he shrugged, not really asking, physically dragging me along with him, talking as we go- the street ;a long ,narrow and smudged line like all New York ones, in the night-time. <br/>“If you read your texts you would know”, he continued, and as he did, I could feel the entirety of Boris’s world come crashing into mine again, who knew what trouble I’d end up in...</p><p>”Know what”? I replied ,pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose, mostly out of habit.</p><p>”That is going to be very big party, that you’d be crazy to miss. See, Mariam, she is not just a businesswoman, no,  she’s an incredible woman who know every club in New York. Russia”?<br/>looking at me sideways as if I’d asked about Russia’s party scene, “ not so much, mostly secret raves, take it from experience- Ha”!<br/>He raked his long hair aside, which had fallen over his eyes, shifting me in closer, holding me by the shoulder now.</p><p>We’d reached the end of the street where I spotted Gyuri’s car from behind, although with a different number plate, parked up.<br/>Boris took me to one side, opening the door for me, nudging at my ribs- <em><strong>in.</strong></em> I drew back hesitantly, looking up at him, behind too, the dark street where patches of light bathed on the pavement.</p><p>“No trouble”?<br/>He cocked up an eyebrow , I knew that expression too well, ‘no fun’.</p><p>”Relax Potter, no trouble of the sort i think you mean”.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Grey eyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>At the end there is some form of homophobia, so this is a warning. It is not overtly obvious but subtle. But I wanted to add it because it does exist and it will be explored in further chapters.</p><p>On a lighter note, talk about SLOW BURN.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A sea of lime green &amp; neon pink rays. Atomic, electrified bodies moved; some, uncertain sways of the hips and others, poised hands skimming mid-air; a crowd too densely-entwined that I struggled to move through it, as if they were connected as one like a spider’s lair.  </p><p>Muscles gleaming with sweat under the glare of harsh lighting, bodies pressed upon others.</p><p>The beat pounding my eardrums, repetitive drone.</p><p>The smell of my own sweat, different from theirs’.</p><p>As they moved freely around me. Free, I noted, not without jealousy, to be intoxicated.</p><p>The gurgle of my stomach as it lunged below my feet, into the glitter-incrusted ground, heavy from the Mac N Cheese Hobie had made tonight.</p><p>I was suddenly aware of the need to throw it all up and the lining of my throat felt raw from the vodka Boris had procured out his jacket.</p><p>Boris?</p><p>Where was Boris?</p><p>I grew increasingly anxious as I searched amongst the crowd, inevitably trapped within another layer of the spider’s web, their lips curled seductively, hands wrapping me with the sliver thread of music and lights.</p><p>Boris, where are you?</p><p>On the verge of losing all hope, through the foliage of flesh and light, my eyes were drawn to 3 figures separate from the crowd, who performed a vanishing act through a private door, covered by a red velvet, moth-bitten curtain that fell down under its weight after they disappeared.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> <strong> 4 hours earlier  </strong> </em>
</p><p>Once Boris had essentially forced me into his car, we quickly began a conversation so familiar it was as if we had never been parted. Of Xandra, my father and soon, of all the strange things that had happened to us. He asked, tenderly aware of me, of Pippa. I admitted that she was ready to tie the knot, next Spring, to a New Yorker who also lived in London; Max, another aspiring vegan musician who only listened to anything made at least forty years ago, relatively well-off this time. They bought most of their shopping from Wholefoods and Waitrose: smoked tofu, 3 different types of almond butter and other bits and bobs of what I regarded as squirrel food. Later, they drankcoffee in their reusable cups and filled their fridge, with the various oddities, in their new Highgate apartment. Now, if Pippa was once to have said ‘I’ it was replaced with ‘We’ and she seldom visited us anymore.</p><p>To cut it short, she was happy.</p><p>And to my surprise, I was for her.</p><p>Though part of me  would always love her, I’d come to realise that I was more attached to the children we had been, to the life I had led before the explosion, the version of life when my mother was still alive.</p><p>Thankfully I hadn’t said half of this to Boris, but I didn’t have to, he knew.</p><p>The car was stuffy, I slouched comfortably into silence as he shouted out affectionately to Gyuri, who was at the wheel, in foreign sounds I made out to be Russian, ‘top marks’ I could hear Boris’s ancient whisper (though it was only in my head).</p><p>Every time Gyuri made a not so neat turn, Boris’s knee pressed into mine. I pretended to ignore it, heat rushing to my cheeks as I forced myself to look at the nondescript buildings.</p><p>City green and red crossroads, dark billboards. The shimmering water as we crossed Brooklyn bridge, almost black on the surface, everything around it became liquid.</p><p><b> <em> Ha, ha </em> </b> <b> , </b>Gyuri and Boris were laughing at some joke.</p><p><em> “Hey Potter </em>”, his hands unexpectedly drawing our foreheads together, as if Gyuri wasn’t here, “I saw our little bird”.</p><p>I shivered. Just the mention of it… enough to shun me into a deeper silence.</p><p>His breath stirred the hairs on my skin, hot, tasting a little of alcohol &amp; smoke, the reflection of the water on his eyes… His eyes focused on mine. The car appeared to grow darker.</p><p>“I was surrounded by a big crowd of people, so many people. And to think”, he amused himself, “that I, no, <b>we</b> kept it for years, held it in our hands, phew”! he chortled. “Who would have ever thought”?</p><p>His gaze then seemed to thread across my lips as if hoping to pull some reply from them, just my imagination.</p><p>Too scared…</p><p>Too scared to entwine our hands, too scared to admit that I wanted to.</p><p>“It was a good thing you did, in the end”, I finally acknowledged.</p><p>He only smiled at me, strangely overcome by emotion, before lightly slapping me on the cheek, a sweet-mocking feeling.</p><p>My own disappointment as we drew apart as quickly as we had drawn together. And by time I had resolved to take his hand, it was too late, the moment had passed. His phone began to ring and all the sounds of the outside blared and roared hideously.</p><p>I attempted to light us a cigarette to share and whilst I fumbled with the lighter, hands shaky, I noticed a pair of light grey eyes watching me in the rear mirror.</p><p>Confused but equally repulsed, eyes unlike the man they belonged to.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The door</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Come to think of it, Gyuri hadn’t said much to me at all since I’d gotten into the car; his mumbled greeting, disjointed arm, twisting of his neck to give me a brief nod. Then a formal handshake was issued between us. From memory and the darkness, it was difficult to recall his features or mood or anything really- his nose might have been longer or shorter, yet the clearness of his eyes was unchangeable.</p><p>I’m obsessing over the small details, trying to find something that might have warned me prior to having the rug pulled beneath my feet- not that I considered Gyuri my friend though he had once treated me as a fellow ‘brother’.</p><p> I never thought about how he saw me or I, him.</p><p>I couldn’t understand why he thought of me and Boris as anything other than what we were.</p><p>True, I, too had and do struggle to comprehend our relationship. Sometimes at night<b>- well what does that matter?</b> No need to delve back into it, no need to- Christ, even on paper, I can’t bring myself to write it, not like in my old letters and ‘diaries’, that sort of honesty doesn’t exactly pour onto the page.</p><p>The Gyuri-situation had made it worse: sent me into a feverish reverie, on the line between reality and dream. To reminisce the past, to analyse any moment, the goldfinch’s shiny eyes threaded its way through all my memories, the angle of its beak- defiantly held- why couldn’t I be the same? Boris had stolen the painting from me, hadn’t he, in that way, stolen my soul? And my mother with her ‘white trenchcoat, filmy pink scarf, black and white two-tone loafers’ on, what would she think of me? Of the life I lead?</p><p>All these thoughts swirled and tormented me since the night his colourless eyes looked at me differently.</p><p>The vehicle, with its ungraceful control, slipping in and out the shadows, within the coves of Brooklyn.</p><p>He hadn’t spoken to me but he did in Russian to Boris without the mish-mash of English I knew him to be capable of, being more or less fluent as Boris or <em>Borya </em>as he called him affectionately.</p><p>
  <em> Ne imey sto rubley, a imey sto druzey. </em>
</p><p> “Theo”.</p><p>I glanced up; Boris was looking at me blankly.</p><p>The cigarette was unlit, poised between my two fingers.</p><p>I hadn’t noticed that the car had stopped.</p><p>Boris let out a bark of laughter, and reached across me, the length of his skinny white wrist revealed by the rising of his leather sleeve as he shoved the door, on my side, open.</p><p>A cold gust of wind refreshed my senses, as a sturdy figure hoisted themselves into the car, I looked back at Boris who was now wiping his lips with his leather-bound forearm, <em>refreshed</em> by a gulp of vodka, he raised a pointed eyebrow.</p><p>I got the message, and tugged myself closer to him to allow space for who I came to know as Mikhail.</p><p>Mikhail, beamed with health, ruddy cheeks, closely shaven, bluish eyes though it was hard to tell.</p><p>He introduced himself to me, kissing both my cheeks and shaking Gyuri &amp; Boris by the shoulder with his strong hands.</p><p>A Russian-American who Boris knew from god-knows-where, I stopped listening to allow them to laugh nosily and shout at each other, happy to be reunited again, since the ‘hush hush’ incident.</p><p>A few times Mikhail would ask about me or for my opinion once the conversation had quietened to politics and philosophy. Boris scowled and grew passionately-angry first at politics then at himself for even getting involved in the conversation which grew admittedly heated. A bottle of vodka was shared around the car. The driver himself not refusing.</p><p>“I think we are here Gyuri, isn’t that the door”? he said, interrupting Mikhail mid-sentence.</p><p>Gyuri slowed the car down to a almost head-hitting halt, and rolled down his window, the sound of the air-conditioning motor decelerating too.</p><p>‘Da’.</p><p>A wooden door with black hinges, made apparent by a single light above it.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> (4 hours later)</p><p>I followed the three figures through the door, throwing the velvet curtain aside as I did. It was heavy metal that made a scraping noise as I prised it open with as much strength as I could muster.  </p><p>How they had composed their ways through with ease was a mystery to me.</p><p>I squeezed myself into the next room, a fragrance of smoke and alcohol lulling me inside.</p><p>I searched for him there, past the booths of happy people, the ugly aubergine walls and damp red carpet and the waitresses who wore little to nothing. Reluctantly, I removed myself from the door towards another room with no door but a beaded curtain that sway side to side.</p><p>Pink cheeks, shadows on everyone’s faces, removed from the spider’s web of the dancefloor, a melody of their own- laughter.</p><p>Would I catch him there? With lank dark hair falling over his eyes, pouring himself another glass, lifting the same glass to a toast, a toast to his companions or even me! Thinking I was there, too drunk to remember?</p><p>You can’t choose what you want, and I wanted him. Why was that clearer now, easier to admit drunk rather than sober, my mind elevated above stupid worries and misery.</p><p>Before I could advance beyond, a tattooed woman, trapped me into a corner, lips messily smudged with wine and sharp, neon-pink nails clawing into my arm.</p><p>“Sad boy”, she said, clumsily tracing a chipped nail across my cupid-bow attempting to hush me.</p><p>Shhhh.</p><p> “I think you’re thinking of someone else, I”-</p><p>Shhhh, she repeated her command, a resonant throaty murmur.</p><p>“Listen”, she hissed, eyes wandering, “You’re searching for someone in your life. But too timid you are”, she insisted, raising her chin upwards knowingly.</p><p>“You are philosopher, yes”? not bothering to wait for a reply, “You will find them, maybe you already have, but not in the way you would have imagined. Life is like that”, she concluded, freeing me from her captive, decided that she would stumble to a table and read people’s palms.</p><p>I stole another glance, a little too shaken to think properly, but still, lifting the beaded curtain and venturing inside.</p><p>He was here! Tucked away into the farthest corner, unrecognisable faces seated with him, one hand strung over a chair, the other slapping the table with glee. His voice the loudest in the room.</p><p>But before I could walk closer, someone, with wide shoulders that concealed Boris from me, took him away to another booth. I followed them, tripping up on one of the numerous chairs that crowded the room. No-one cared to look at me as if I were a walking spectre. Or perhaps too drunk to care.</p><p>“Really”?</p><p>My head shot up, his voice again, Boris’s voice, full of contempt and disgust.</p><p>He sat with the figure who had stolen him away, occupied in conversation, perched on the end of a seat, arm wrapped around the man’s shoulder.</p><p>The man was Mikhail, same healthy-plumpness of cheeks and his annoying jolly cackle.</p><p>They were talking in varying pitches, busied by words, heads close together, almost cheek to cheek.</p><p>And suddenly Mikhail’s lips were on Boris’s and I felt my stomach make a turn for the worst.</p><p>For Boris returned the kiss with equal hunger &amp; lust.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. And if you close the door , the night could last forever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Smoke filled my lungs, a drag too deep, coughing over my knees, one hand on the wall to steady myself.</p><p>The outside world, forgotten for a few hours, movements &amp; feelings that didn't make sense once I had left the club- or more accurately put- ran away from the club.</p><p>The brief blush, the violent tug &amp; pull of lust, Mikhail's soft, healthy skin sagged under the light.</p><p>The moon- a distant ring in the sky before sunrise.</p><p>I could still remember when Boris had kissed me. </p><p>The shock, embarrassment, momentary clash of noses until he titled his head a little &amp; gave me a quick peck, cold hands on either side of flushed cheeks.</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>And if you close your eyes the night could last forever,</strong>
  </em>
  <em> he hummed my mother's iPod Classic playlist. </em>
</p><p>Strange to think back, to want a piece of how it was- to when it was me &amp; Boris against the world.</p><p>Sun in Cancer, shy &amp; hesitant, passing through a turbulent period of change- '<em>Don't sweat the small stuff Kid', my Father's advice becoming more candid over time.</em></p><p>The street was empty apart from some jeering junkies, insatiable appetite of a hound, I knew that the garbage men would be arriving soon, life would play out- you get up, toilet, eat, travel, work, eat, toilet, work, travel, eat, watch tv, toilet, sleep etc. Everyone playing their role, all the observer, all the miserable, all the liars. No-one was an anomaly. God, I hated the way alcohol left me- worse off than I had started. </p><p>I tossed my cigarette aside and crossed the road in order to avoid the approaching junkies, huddled up and eyes anywhere but here.</p><p>"Hey"!</p><p>I shot a glance behind- he came running, dancing up on tiptoes when nearly knocked over by a speeding car, taking my wrist and getting annoyed when still, I tried to escape him.</p><p>"Oi stop Theo", he slurred my name, making it Heo.</p><p>"Get off me".</p><p>"For fuck's sake, what's the matter with you"? his eyes searched me, hands resting on my shoulders, forcing me to look at him.</p><p>"You took something"? he asked, suddenly sure that he knew I had.</p><p>I laughed, a big performative, false toothy one, one that boiled his temper- he squeezed my nose painfully together before releasing it.</p><p>Holding me in place.</p><p>"Maybe I saw something", I snapped.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Come back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Almost as soon as I’d said those words, I regretted them. A slip of the tongue, my thoughts were thoughts for a reason; so that no-one would come to realise how despicable I was (/am?)</p><p>12 and a half months ago, I could have listed all the irksome qualities of Kitsey. Before she eloped with her beloved ‘Tom Cable’, thus breaking her mother’s heart, her cavalier brush over human emotion ( in order to avoid situations she’d call ‘awks’- pulling a face to prove her point, because no-one was allowed to get mad or be sad and doing so would be silly &amp; non-beneficial for all parties involved).</p><p>Or her insistence in buying new, modern pieces of furniture to decorate a lifeless en-suite, we never ended up owning in the end- used to seethe my ego-centric soul into hostility.</p><p>But this was Boris- how could I begin to compare the two?</p><p>When everything he did was reckless or rushed through. And her, the extreme opposite.</p><p>Looking at him now, in the uncomfortable silence that had fallen, he rubbed his nose as if feeling the pang, he’d caused me.</p><p>Slowly, as if drawing out the words <strong>carefully, so unlike him, </strong>he finally spoke:</p><p>“What did you see”? all the sudden seeming exhausted, face washed-out; eyebrow hairs all disarranged, and body; wrapping himself tighter in that leather jacket, moving around to keep himself warm.</p><p>Why lie? Nothing left to lose?</p><p>“You and Mikhail”, I confessed.</p><p>The junkies were scrabbling between themselves on the street.</p><p>Boris looked at me strangely &amp; raised a questioning eyebrow, “You were bothered by that”?</p><p>I gave him a Russian shrug.</p><p>Without waiting for confirmation, he flung his arm over my shoulder, hugging me in, a small "Ha" escaping his lips.</p><p> “Was nothing”, he spat out ‘nothing’ again for emphasis, “really, I assure you”, jumping a little around, he began giggling like a fool, clearly relieved, “Pfath! You scared me. Thought I’d done something terrible to you”. Face displaying a series of emotions- incredulity, amusement, embarrassment and then that drowsy look: half-awake, half-here, but not an ounce of regret…</p><p>Did I want him to show some regret even if he didn't feel it?</p><p> So, I wouldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t even snatch a glance. And with the flick of a hand, sent him flying backwards into some bins.</p><p>(I wasn’t thinking straight).</p><p>“Potter”! he shouted, stunned to look down at his crumpled body, then holding his arms out with comedic effect, as I, decidedly,turned away.</p><p>“Come on”.</p><p>“Seriously”?!</p><p>Still I trudged on- there had to be a subway nearby…</p><p>“Okay”! he was starting to yell, sparking the junkies’ interest, slipping between Russian, English and for some reason French-</p><p>“J’étais con “.</p><p>“Potter”.</p><p>“вернитесь”!</p><p>“Well, fuck you, you suka”, he was now pissed.</p><p>I looked back and watched him; close the distance between us and permitted a familiar flick of thumb and forefinger on my temple.</p><p>“Am sorry”, he slushed his words around, hair in his face again, I couldn’t help myself from brushing a few strands back and letting the same hand fall, rigid &amp; tempered of steel. </p><p>“Don’t worry about it”. I chose forgiveness (Kitsey is right, emotions are too messy).</p><p>He looked up, “Where are you going”? He knew me too well.</p><p>One of the junkies whistled, he turned and threw his arm up angrily, ‘Screw you assholes’ deliberately mispronouncing the entire sentence :)</p><p>He was childishly hurt, tired and affectionate all at once.</p><p>“Home “, I replied.</p><p>He gave me his attention once more, “Running away from me again”?</p><p>But I got the sense that it wasn’t a question.</p><p>“It’s- I’ve changed, well not changed but I can’t slip up this time”, remembering that I would have to retell all this at therapy, and the man in the chair would bang on about the cycle of habit.</p><p>“I see”, he sniffled, blowing his nose into a t-shirt sleeve.</p><p>The day began to turn gold and with the rattle &amp; bang of the garbage truck.</p><p>I smiled at him, though I knew life without him made me feel void, the days longer and sleep, still impossible.</p><p>He knew I had to go.</p><p>And us too, the sun made gold.</p><p>Don't cry.</p><p>Touch- he grabbed my forearm- “Let Gyuri drive you”.</p><p>He was glad of something to do, to have come up with this ‘great’ idea of his, fishing his phone out from his pocket, gesturing to me to light his cigarette, making the call whilst I protested against the whole thing.</p><p>But he wasn’t taking no for an answer.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Tomato</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>How were we different? And almost the same?</p><p>The lazy, impenetrable silence fell and we observed together the street; the dust that rose with a passing car; the junkies, slumbering, together, atop a bench, collapsed into each other, cheek skin flabby on their companion’s elbow or shoulder; Boris’s untied laces; the pallid sunlight;</p><p> In darkness, surfaces changed, what was concealed underneath that layer, secrets untold;</p><p>finally, our eyes settled on the thing that sought to wedge itself between us- the sight of Gyuri’s car.</p><p>I couldn’t tell anymore, who was more relieved to be rid of one another- me or Boris?</p><p>Relieved… why would I use that word?</p><p>When I wished to huddle with him, have him lull me to sleep, as when we were children…</p><p>‘Apart’ I would conjure up all the things I needed to tell him or look around for him, to listen to him snarl some ridiculous disdain for Americans or lecture me on the pertinence of Russian literature (he’d never even read).</p><p>Top tip from Boris- “Vodka is the best cure for a migraine”.</p><p>Remembering once he’d proclaimed to have been a ‘good’ Muslim and how I’d laughed &amp; reasoned that the Boris I knew, didn’t believe in God.</p><p>Then when he had looked back at me; a half-chewed cigarette hanging from his mouth, and brushed my comment aside with a casual ‘pffh’, “Is not true, sure, I believe in God”, and a look of all-seriousness, “For me, he’s more like a pattern, not even a he”, It was then that I believed him.</p><p>Gyuri stayed inside and flashed the headlights once.</p><p>Boris finished his cigarette off, twisting it into the ground; ashes smoothed over the pavement like grey dust.</p><p>So, this is it, I thought.</p><p>Gyuri was watching, I was sure of it.</p><p>Boris was waiting.</p><p>And when he threw his head back and yawned in my direction- it was more performative than that of a natural action.</p><p>“Say ‘ello to the old poofter”, seemingly unaware of my aversion to that address of Hobie, “And Popchyk, of course”, he rubbed my nose with his; Eskimo-style, “And you, say goodbye from me to you”, we stood still, nose to nose. Before I knew it, a butterfly touch of a kiss on both cheeks.</p><p>When I tried to grab hold of him, force him to stay with me, my hands would not obey and it was all I could do to stutter a farewell.</p><p>The insides of the car were grubbier than I had remembered and as Boris perched low to talk to Gyuri through the driver’s window, I looked down at my horribly clammy palms and up to the reflection of my red face and thought that to worsen matters, the windows were operated by the driver.</p><p>I felt my poise slip.</p><p>Thud.</p><p>He was tapping on the glass, with his distinctive rap.</p><p>“Gyuri”, his voice echoed through the car, an instruction in itself which the former understood immediately.</p><p>The glass between me and Boris rolled down.</p><p>“Jesus, you look like tomato”, he felt my cheeks ,” Hmmm too much to drink, I think. Well,”, simultaneously smiling and removing his hands, “I told Gyuri your address”, it was going too fast, “So <strong>I. We</strong> hope to see you soon then”.</p><p>We said goodbye in that passage of time between our half-wave and the clumsy movement of Gyuri’s car. In seconds or perhaps hours, I looked behind me and Boris was but a silhouette.  </p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Vadim</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The window remained open for the entirety of the car journey; of which events I will relate to you now.</p><p>For a while I kept to my thoughts, and gaze, solely directed on the rising city. Gyuri was a shoulder, a line, a shadow in the dimly lit vehicle of whom I soon would no longer be a part of.</p><p>Once this portion of the day was complete, I was to purge myself of the evening- a scolding bath might do the trick, aspirin for the migraine and a day off from the shop &amp; Hobie. Four applications of mouthwash and a packet of mints for the stench of alcohol and smoke.</p><p>I couldn’t wait to peel off yesterday’s attire which clung to me like a second skin.</p><p>This feeling of dirt contorted my organic facial expressions, I couldn’t seem to narrow my flared nostrils or reshape the downward curve of my lips. The crumpled shirt of yesterday, felt now unflattering and a size too small.</p><p>With darkness’s cloak thrown back, the roads appeared wider, the buildings- a triumphant, blinding glare.</p><p>I was felt myself grow more attune to the rhythm of silence, when he spoke.</p><p>“1979”.</p><p>Keep your eyes on the trees which all blur into green.</p><p>                                                                        “Vadim was killed”, peculiar note of sadness to his voice,</p><p>only peculiar because I hadn’t heard it before.</p><p>“A brother, like you and Borya”.</p><p>I turned at that,</p><p>He slowed the car’s pace a little, and looked only ahead.</p><p>“Death leave no pretty bodies behinds,</p><p>Vadim… He was mine-</p><p>Do you understand”?</p><p>Traffic lights, halt.</p><p>“Why did he die”? I asked, tacfully,instead.</p><p>But he repeated the question:</p><p>Do you understand?</p><p>“Yes”, our eyes met for a spilt second in the front mirror. Cold blue.</p><p>“My father, big angry man, was a leader of a mob; that I and Vadim were a part of.</p><p>Thicker than blood.</p><p>In Russia, terrorising local villages.</p><p>Money,</p><p>Money,</p><p>Money.</p><p>But so much blood.</p><p>So ‘aturally we wanted to quit”.</p><p>Traffic lights went green, he drove us into a deserted side street and then turned the engine off.</p><p>I catch a few breathes in that time, inhales of the street’s solitary air, before he continues his story:</p><p>“One day, someone has told my father. I remember the room, the room where he tells me ‘you are longer my son’.</p><p>I escape.</p><p>But Vadim”,</p><p>He hits his chest with a screwed-up fist,</p><p>“Is not so lucky as I.</p><p>A friend helps me and other Russians, to travel on tiny boat to land of dreams.</p><p>But when I get here, not so many jobs for someone like me.</p><p>But I hear in a bar, of a Russian who runs the mines in Utah.</p><p>So, I go and I ask for job.</p><p>Do you know who that man was”?</p><p> </p><p>He turns to me and I shake my head to confirm the negative.</p><p>“It was Boris’s father”, said with a revering tone,</p><p>“So kind, a gentleman, I almost forget life before.</p><p>But never Vadim.</p><p>How I ‘eft Vadim”, his voice turns slushy and almost incomprehensible.</p><p>I was lame back there, unable to think anything up, anything that might console him, what did he want me to do?</p><p>Hug him?</p><p>With a more rigid hold on his emotions, he took up the words of his parole, as before;</p><p>“Many years later”, he blows his nose on a blackened handkerchief,</p><p>“I hear that they are looking for me again. They search for me,</p><p>For retribution,</p><p>As is the wish my father made on his deathbed.</p><p>But Boris, my saviour,</p><p>A young man at that point,</p><p>Hears of this and I, a loyal man of his father’s company, at danger.</p><p>He makes deal between the mob and him, but this is private, see for my head”, he gestures by clocking his head to one side,</p><p>“I owe everything to Boris; how could I pay back such a debt?</p><p>So, I become his driver”.</p><p>“Why are telling me this”?</p><p>“It’s done”, he spits.</p><p>Before I can mutter an apology, before i realise the story is terminated, he strikes the cabinet above and from it :crumbs, dust, the stale air of tobacco come flying outwards, along with a folded note.</p><p>He violently unfolds it and hands it over to me.</p><p>“This is where you’ll find what you’re looking for”, the last words he speaks before reviving the car's life again. </p><p>And on it reads:</p><p>
  <em>14 Chepstow Villas</em>
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  <em>Notting Hill, London</em>
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  <em>W11 2RB.</em>
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